A Hunter in SHIELD
by I'mprobablyprocrastinating
Summary: What if Clint Barton wasn't the assassin everyone believed him to be? What if he was really a hunter? One that unlike his step-brothers, who had gained the unwanted attention of angels, had instead gained the attention of a secret government organization. Either one could be bad in his eyes.
1. A new beginning, Clint 7

**Before we start I just want to let you know that I've changed Hawkeye's story line ever so slightly and instead of being born in 1971, Hawkeye is born in 1976, making him three years older than Dean Winchester and seven years younger than Sam. Otherwise Clint would have been twelve years older than Sam and I decided that this would have made it extremely hard for Clint and Sam to have a close brotherly relationship as Clint would have been away for most of Sam's childhood when John would take him on hunts. Other than that everything should stay virtually similar to the story lines, and if anything changes in the future I will let you know before the chapter.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything in Supernatural or the Avengers.**

Chapter 1- A new beginning, Clint aged 7

Clint Barton, the seven year old orphan who'd lost his parents when he was four, leant his head against the glass window, staring up at the sky with a look of longing written across his face for the world to see. His legs were pulled up to his chest and his arms rested on his knees whilst a bag lay forgotten beside him. It was packed with all of his belongings yet it still looked virtually empty, not that Clint had taken any notice of that small fact.

Everyone at the care home had very few things they could actually call their own. Clint had more than what was considered normal, especially compared to his roommate, Liam, who had arrived last week with only a small back pack to show off as his. At least Clint's bag was full with everything he knew he would need.

"Clinton!" a woman called from what Clint guessed was three floors below him, forcing the boy to look away from the window towards the door behind him. It was closed. That meant he would have at least another half an hour before anyone realised where he was. Technically no one other than his carers, Thomas and Margaret Hart, were allowed up in the attic. Apparently it was dangerous, old and in danger of falling down. Clint wasn't convinced though. He came up here every other day and sat by the window, lost in his own thoughts and peacefulness. The most that could ever happen to him was the possibility that a box full of old junk fell on top of him, perhaps giving him a small bruise. If that happened Clint knew he'd be more concerned by the fact that he'd broken the Harts belongings. After all, this care home was a lot better than some of the others he'd been in before. The people here actually cared for him, even if they didn't always have the money to show him. He didn't want to break any of their things when they actually cared and fed him.

He was actually a little sad to be leaving them when he thought about it, but they said he was going to a far better home that he could stay in permanently. As long as the family wanted him, Clint would be a member of the Winchester family.

He frowned at the thought. His seven year old mind still wasn't sure how it felt about that. Everyone had told him it was a good thing, and he wanted to believe them but he had seen many people leave to live in a new home with a new family, only to return a couple of months or weeks later, distraught and angry.

That was one of the main reasons he'd ran away from his previous care home three years ago with his older brother, Barney. They had both joined a travelling carnival and in Clint's young mind, nothing could be better. He was allowed to watch every performance that was shown and he had a warm bed and he spent the time working around the carnival with his brother. And then with the added certainty of three full meals a day, he couldn't imagine anything ever going wrong. Clint smiled at the old memories.

"Clinton!" Margaret called again, and with a sigh (Margaret had always insisted on using his full name), Clint picked up his bag, slung it over one shoulder and walked from the room, ready to leave with the Winchester's. He jogged down the stairs, not wanting to look too eager, and walked to the main office where a tall man with dark hair was leaning over a desk signing several final and last minute documents involving Clint. The seven year old recognised him as John Winchester, one of the people in his new family. Margaret and Thomas were there too, and after John put the pen down Thomas took the documents and scanned through them to make sure everything was in order. A warm smile spread across his face and he bowed his head towards John slightly before turning and adding the paper to a file.

"Clint is officially a part of your family," he said to John, the smile never wavering, and once he finished the sentence both John and Margaret smiled too, but for different reasons. He had seen Thomas and Margaret act like this whenever a child was adopted into another family, and every time it happened Clint could tell it was genuine happiness, just like it was now.

John on the other hand smiled but whilst he seemed to be staying calm, on the inside he was concentrating on controlling his nerves. He'd felt fine until he signed his name for the final time on the documents, finally and officially making Clint a part of his family. He already had a four year old at home and his wife was pregnant again. They'd met Clint with the intentions of adopting him before they realised Mary was going to be having another child and neither of them were planning on leaving Clint after they'd given him hope. The Winchester's had decided that they would just have to raise three children instead of the two like they had planned. They'd decided that but it didn't mean he was nervous and slightly terrified at how everything could turn out.

Slowly, Clint moved into the room with the three adults, nerves he hadn't felt before entering his body and making him feel unwell and weak. It wasn't a feeling he liked. John turned to look at him, "hey Clint," he said, his tone friendly and welcoming.

"Hello," Clint replied, his voice wavering ever so slightly. He bit his lip, his nerves building up. He was never great at talking with new people. Even if he had met John and his wife Mary on six different occasions now.

"Are you ready to go?" John asked and Clint nodded in response. "Have you packed everything?"

"I think so," the seven year old replied, mentally going through the list of his belongings in his head. Once he'd finished he looked back at John. "Yes" he said, but with more certainty this time.

John smiled, and his body seemed to visibly relax. "Good," he said and then he turned around to face the other two adults. "Is there anything else that I need to do?" he asked, making sure everything was completed before they left.

"All of the documents are in order" Thomas replied and he walked towards the door John had entered through half an hour ago, opening it for Clint and John.

"Okay then," John muttered distractedly, like he was trying to think of what to do next. "Is there anyone that you want to say good bye to before we leave?" he asked the boy standing next to him and at the small shake of Clint's head John gently put a hand on Clint's shoulder to guide him out of the room. Clint had said his goodbyes that morning. "Thank you, again, for all of your help. I don't think me or Mary would have been able to do any of this without either of you two around to help us," John said, honestly, gesturing to Clint and the files as he did so.

Margaret smiled warmly at the Winchester. "That's what we are here for" she said to John, shaking the man's hand. "Good luck, to the both of you."

"Thank you," John said. "Again."

Thomas laughed, "No problem." He then walked around the desk and knelt down in front of Clint. "And you, Mr," he said to Clint, ruffling the blondes hair. "Be good. And do what the Winchester's tell you to do, keep your room tidy"-

"I will, Tom," Clint interrupted him. This conversation had happened at least twice now.

Thomas ignored him and carried on. "And the most important rule. Have fun and enjoy yourself kiddo, the Winchester's are good people. We wouldn't let you go with them if they weren't." That was new, and unexpected. Clint smiled, the realisation that he was leaving finally hitting him.

"Okay," he replied, immediately moving his hand to straighten out his now messy hair but Thomas reached towards it again when he saw what Clint was doing, only missing him because Clint ducked out of the way, mockingly glaring at him.

"What?" Thomas laughed. "Your hair's always messy. Running your hands through it won't make it look any better."

Clint frowned, staring Thomas in the eyes, before losing control and grinning. "Goodbye, Tom. Goodbye, Margaret."

"Good bye, kiddo," Thomas replied at the same time Margaret said "Goodbye, Clinton."

This time Clint and John did leave the building, and the adult rushed to the car to open the passenger door for his newest son. Once inside John did a once over of Clint, checking the youngest occupant of the car was safely strapped in with the seat belt and then he started the car, flinching slightly when music started roaring from the car. He saw Clint jump next to him and he mentally scolded himself. _Why the hell had he left the music on so loud?_ Quickly, he turned around and flashed Clint a reassuring smile to try and calm the boy's now racing heart. "Sorry about that," he said, grimacing. "We listen to music a lot in our house."

Clint looked up at him with shocked wide eyes. However, when he seemed to register the fact that it was only music, he shrugged. "'s alright," Clint stated.

"Well, you can choose what we listen to if you want to," John offered, "all the tapes I have on me at the moment are in that compartment there." John briefly took his hand off the steering wheel to point towards the compartment in front of the blonde. "Take your pick."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence when Clint didn't make a move, just sat beside John, looking at him to see if he was lying. John, who was starting to feel uncomfortable under the penetrating stare, kept his eyes on the road, doing his best to ignore the look the boy was giving him. _Seriously,_ he thought. _I can handle being a Marine but not a kid?_ Eventually the kid in question looked away and opened the compartment to look at John's collection of tapes. After a lot of deliberation, Clint slowly handed a tape with the label that read 'AC/DC' on the front to John who took it and read the label, pleased. "AC/DC?" he said, looking down at Clint with pleasure. "You know how to pick your music."

"Actually, I haven't heard of them before," Clint mumbled, scared that he'd annoy the man. "The name sounded interesting."

John shrugged and again took his hand off of the steering wheel to sort out the music. God, Mary would kill him if she could see him now. "Either way, it was a great choice."

The rest of the car journey was pleasantly relaxing, much to both Clint and John's relief. They had been expecting it to be long and uncomfortable, with them both trying to make conversation whilst the other preferred to stay quiet. Instead, John spent the journey talking to Clint about the different music he and Mary listened to, and that his son Dean, was already starting to acquire a similar taste in music to himself, even though he was only four. _"It would be great if you preferred my taste to hers,"_ John had said at one point, _"her reaction would be priceless."_ At that point in the journey he had managed to persuade a laugh out of the kid beside him, to his pleasure. Clint even told him about the music they listened to in the care home. _"It was slow and life draining"_ Clint exaggerated. _"Like the stuff they listened to when music was first invented."_

Before they knew it John was slowing the car down to a stop, the impala's engine signalling to everyone in their neighbourhood that they had returned. Clint copied John, opening his door when the adult opened his and then cautiously walked behind the man, following him towards the house on the end of the street. All of his nerves suddenly returned to him and he counted to ten under his breath to calm his pumping heart. It was a trick he'd learnt in the carnival, just after he'd joined. And he was glad that he had. It was twice he'd had to use that technique today.

John opened the door and let Clint pass him before closing it again. He put a reassuring hand on Clint's shoulder, lightly squeezing it as a measure of comfort. "Mary!" he called, "Dean! We're home."

There was a groan from the living room as John heard his pregnant wife try to manoeuvre herself across the living room, avoiding the toys he was certain Dean would have taken out, the opportunity of his father being out and his mother being pregnant, so both of them in harder situations to clean up after him, too great to miss. When he rounded the corner into the living room a small partially built electronic train track was weaving its way around the couch and underneath the coffee table, as John had suspected it would be. "Daddy!" Dean shouted, pushing himself up from the floor and running over to the man as he entered the room.

"Dean," John said, picking the boy up and swinging him in a circle once before putting him back down on ground level. "Meet Clint, the newest member of our family, Clint meet Dean, my youngest son."

"Hello" Dean said, looking up at the seven year old.

"Hey," Clint replied, staring at the small boy with thick pale brown hair.

"Hello, Clint" a woman sitting behind Dean on the couch said, and he instantly recognised her as Mary, John's wife. She had obviously tried and failed at getting across the room. "I would come over and greet you properly, but as you can see," she said whilst pointing to her stomach. "It would take the rest of the night for me to do."

The corners of Clint's mouth curled. "It's alright," Clint replied, noticing the size of her stomach.

"So, how was the journey here?" she asked and Clint shrugged.

"It was good," he replied.

"I'm pleased, I know how boring John can be when he starts talking about his music," she said, causing a giggle to escape Dean's mouth. _How had she known he was talking about that?_ Clint thought. In answer to his silent question she said, "he always talks about his music if given the chance."

"I'll have you find Mary, I am not a boring person," John spoke up from behind Clint. "I'm the most entertaining and exciting person I know, don't you agree Dean?"

The boy shook his head and quickly ran towards his mother, using her as protection from his dad who was now chasing after him. Dean giggled as he ran away from him. Clint stood to the side of the room, watching the father and son as they played. There was a sudden crashing noise and the toy train toppled to the side, having made it to the end of its track. Everyone in the room looked at it whilst Dean used the distraction to escape his father's grasp and run over to the toy. He noticed Clint's awed expression. "It's cool isn't it?" the young boy said and Clint nodded, not having seen one before. "It was a birthday present from Mummy and Daddy. Do you want to help me?"

Clint looked at him, surprised by the question. He briefly looked at Mary and John, both of whom were smiling, proud off their son and pleased the two boys seemed to be getting on. "Erm, yeah, alright," the seven year old replied turning his attention back to Dean.

"You don't have too," Dean continued, seeing Clint's hesitation.

Clint shook his head, "no, I'd like to." Still nervous, Clint slowly made his way into the room whilst being careful not to step on any of the track and disturb the train's path. Dean quickly handed Clint some of the plastic track, eager to show the boy how to play with the toy before Clint lost interest in it. His parents were quick to lose interest in this particular toy. Dean had no idea why. However, after he showed Clint how to fix the track together they both stayed on the floor for the next hour, adding track and changing its layout the entire time. Within ten minutes Dean had pulled out another train, this one a dark purple, and handed it to Clint. "This can be your one and I'll have the red one," he said after Clint took it. The entire time they spent racing each other's trains, neither of them being a clear winner as they both won an equal number of races.

 **-o-0-o-**

Clint sat on the edge of his bed, looking around his new room. It was opposite Dean's and down the hallway from John and Mary's room. He was surprised to say the least, having expected them to make him share a room with Dean. Whilst the room looked boring now, with white walls and a grey duvet covet, John and Mary had promised him that he could decorate it how he pleased. He could pick out his own bed set and wall colour, and add to the rooms contents as he pleased.

It was a little over whelming, suddenly being given so much but Clint liked it. The Winchester's seemed nice and friendly so far, and he and Dean got along better than he'd expected. Dean had even given Clint the purple train, which now had its own place on his bed side table.

The seven year old stood up and quickly emptied the contents of his bag. The three sets of clothing fell out onto his bed and he hurriedly made them neater, Mary said she would put them in his cupboard for him later, but he still wanted them to look presentable when she did so. There was a worn and tattered copy of Robin Hood on top of that. The corners were torn and the pages were worn from use, but Clint didn't care. No matter how often Barney had offered to replace it, Clint had always denied. Robin Hood had always been his favourite book. It was the first book his mum had ever bought him and every night she'd read it to him from front to back. The idea was for him to fall asleep half way through but that never happened. Clint made sure he stayed awake until the end, not matter how much his eyes drooped. It was his favourite book after all.

The final object to fall out of his bag was a photograph on a thin flimsy piece of paper. It was in near perfect condition, more important to him than his Robin Hood book. His entire family were standing in front of their old fire place, all of them smiling. Clint and Barney were at the front and his mum and dad were at the back. Just by looking at the picture, Clint felt his eyes sting. The picture was taken on Barney's birthday, a few months before the car crash his parents had died in. He heard the footsteps walk up behind him and stop by his side before John's hand made its way to his shoulder again.

"Are they your family?" he asked, and Clint nodded, not trusting himself to talk. "They look happy." Again he was stating the obvious, but he knew that that was what Clint needed.

"They were," Clint whispered back.

John smiled sadly. "Dinner will be ready in five minutes. I'll meet you down stairs," he said before leaving Clint to himself. He was going to make sure Clint had more pictures to look at. Clint was a Winchester now, and John was going to make sure Clint knew that, even if he had to take a thousand pictures of his two children, and soon to be three, having fun together to give to Clint. The seven year old was his son now too.


	2. Keeping an eye on your brothers, Clint 7

**It's been a while since I updated this but don't worry, I intend to carry this story on until the end, which should be many chapters away yet. I had three different ideas for how I was going to write this chapter out which is one of the main reasons for the long wait between updates, but I eventually settled on this and I'm happy with the way it turned out. Thank you to everyone who read the last chapter, followed it and favourited it, and thank you to 'white collar black wolf', 'Sparky199', 'lone ruler', 'Guest' and 'Snowydog9824' for reviewing the last chapter, I'm glad all of you liked it.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own anything in Supernatural or the Avengers.**

Chapter 2- Keeping an eye on your brothers, Clint aged 7

Clint sat on the back of the impala where John had left him, Dean tightly pressed to his side for the comfort that he searched for in the older boy he now called brother. The thin set of pyjamas that he'd put on only hours ago were the only measure of warmth he had against the biting cold night air, John had given him his coat to share with Dean but Clint had given it to the younger boy who was wearing even thinner clothes than him.

The newest member of the Winchester family, two month old Sam was held tightly against Clint's chest hidden in the several folded layers of a blanket, his arms supporting the baby's head and body just like he'd been shown by Mary a few weeks after Sam had been born, and as Clint watched John talk to a member of the fire brigade he felt the small child move about in his arms, slowly waking up from his sleep.

It had been over an hour since Clint had woke to the smell of smoke in the Winchester house, his sleep filled mind not connecting the acrid smell and the shouting coming from Sam's nursery to danger until he heard John's own cry. John shouting for his wife still echoed around in his head, just like his order before he was pushed in the direction of Sam and Dean. _"Keep an eye on your brothers, Clint."_ The last thing John had said to him before he'd seen the man run back into the burning nursery, any sensible thoughts seemingly forgotten by the adult.

Clint felt an arm wrap around his body in a small form of a hug and he looked down to see Dean pushing further into him, the four year olds eyes on John as well, the green orbs mixed with worry, fear and a sense of responsibility that Clint didn't expect to see in a four year old. John ran a hand through his hair, looking distraught yet somehow keeping it together in front of the fireman who seemed to be listening to him closely, looking between John and the house as the oldest Winchester explained different aspects about the fire to him. Clint wasn't sure what John was talking about, although he guessed it was to do with what happened inside the house when the fire had first started. Clint wasn't certain of it himself when he thought back to it, having ran towards the room just as John came out of it carrying Sam protectively in his arms, passing the child onto Dean, his mind preoccupied with the safety of the baby who couldn't protect himself. When Dean ran down the stairs John noticed Clint, the seven year old looking into the room that was already being destroyed by the fire, the flames lapping up at anything that would burn, curtains, wood, carpet, only causing the destruction to increase further.

Now that the fire had been put out Clint could see the damage the flames had caused. Sam's once clean and tidy room he knew would now be a mess of smouldering furniture and smoke, and the window that looked out onto the front guardian revealed the blackened and burnt remains of what was left inside, the glass having shattered when the heat eventually became too much on the inside and had been forced out and onto the ground below. Even the white paint on the outside of the house surrounding the window had been affected, it having turned a dark brown that seemed to fade the further away from the nursery window you looked.

Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, John stopped talking to the fireman and he turned to look at his three sons, two of which had mild forms of confusion and fear on their faces whilst the other was hidden from his view, wrapped up in his oldest son's arms. He walked over to them, ignoring the stares from the gathering crowd that felt as if they were following him along. Instead, all of his concentration went to hiding his feelings behind a carefully constructed mask. All of the sadness and guilt, the growing loss that was slowly digging its way further into the pit of his stomach, disappeared from his face and was replaced by his best attempts of reassurance and comfort as he tried to silently tell his son's that everything would be alright. He wasn't sure if he truly felt that himself but he'd make sure his son's believed it to be true.

Once by their side, John took Sam from Clint's arms and opened the back door to the impala, gently placing the two month old into the passenger seat where the baby seat was already strapped in. "Dean, get in the car," he said, his voice blunt and showing no emotions as he held back the tears burning behind his eyes. Dean did as he was told, sliding off of the car and climbing into the back seat. John then addressed Clint, trying to give the boy a reassuring smile, hoping it looked more believing than he felt it did. "Clint, go into the trunk, there's a couple of blankets in there. Take them out and share them between you and Dean." Clint nodded, seeing through the blank expression and went to the trunk of the car, opening it as he was instructed and taking out the two blankets, both of which were very thick, something that made him feel marginally better, but not by much. He then closed the trunk and climbed into the back of the impala; handing one of the blankets to Dean who took it gratefully and quickly wrapped it around his body, sinking into its warmth gratefully.

John started the car, looking over his shoulder once to make sure Clint and Dean were strapped safely into their seats and then driving away from the destroyed house, glancing at the wing mirror every couple of seconds to look at the building as the distance between it and the car increased.

Clint looked out of the window, watching as houses and lamp posts passed them by, everything blurring into one before he finally broke the silence, realising they were no longer in a part of the neighbourhood that he recognised."Where are we going?" he asked, now starting to warm up as the blanket kept in his body heat.

John's eyes flicked up towards the front mirror to get a quick glimpse of Clint before going back to look at the road, hesitating slightly before he spoke. "Mary has a friend who owns a motel down the road; she said we can stay there for a couple of weeks until our house is safe for us to enter again." His voice cracked several times throughout the sentence but he still refused to let ay tears fall and Clint nodded, unsure of what else he could say.

After that the journey was made in complete silence. Sam only woke once, crying at first but calming when his dad gently brushed a finger down the infants cheek in a comforting gesture, both to make Sam feel better and to reassure himself. Was he doing the right thing? Yes, he was. He'd seen someone else in that fire before the flames engulfed the room, he'd seen the silhouette of a man staring at him, unmoving even when the flames burned viciously around them. He had seen the man. He'd been confused at first and by the time he realised that what he was seeing was real the man had disappeared. But he hadn't done so without unsettling John further, doing something that would haunt John for the rest of his life; the yellow eyes that had flickered into place before going back to normal would appear in his dreams for a long time to come. A shudder made its way down John's spine and he shifted position in the driver's seat with discomfort. The small action went unnoticed by Dean who was slowly drifting off to sleep due to the early hours of the morning, but Clint saw it and his brow furrowed in confusion, unsure of what had caused the action from John.

Thirty minutes after leaving their house the impala slowed to a stop outside of a large, one floor building and John climbed out, his only parting words to the three boys being, "stay here," as he closed his door and locked the car, no longer feeling his children were safe if it was unlocked for a few seconds without him there watching over them.

The boy's did as they were told, not leaving the car until John returned and then Clint opened Dean's door, waking him up with a gentle shake so as not to startle the four year old, before leading him towards the motel room that John had already disappeared into with Sam in his arms.

The motel room was even smaller than what Clint expected. There was nothing to it but two beds, a small table with two chairs placed around it, and a couch placed in front of a TV. A door opposite the couch led to the bathroom but Clint could already tell from his position on the other side of the room that it only held a shower, sink and toilet. Overall the place didn't feel like a temporary home at all, not even with the added effect of the bright yellow and blue flowers in a vase on the table, the only real source of colour throughout the entire building. Dean almost immediately headed towards one of the beds, climbing into the covers with the blanket still wrapped awkwardly over one of his shoulders and under the other.

"Daddy, what are we doing here?" Dean asked, looking up at his father expectantly, the normal cheer and enthusiasm that could be heard in his voice gone and replaced with a small waver of dread and laced with sadness and raw emotions over the loss of his mother. It was clear the boy was upset over it but it was also noticeable that the night's events hadn't actually sunk into his head yet. By tomorrow Dean would understand everything.

John looked up and away from Sam, turning to look at Dean, a small smile on his face. "Remember Joanne, Mum's friend from work," he said to which Dean nodded as an answer. "She's letting us stay here for a while, just until our house is safe for us to go into again."

"Will we go back by the end of the week?" Dean asked and Clint looked to John to see the answer as well, not liking the musty and cold motel room at all.

John's smile grew. "Sure kiddo," he said, but Clint saw the uncertainty behind the man's eyes before he returned his attention to Sam. _Maybe they'd be here for a fortnight then,_ Clint thought. _He could live with that._ They didn't know it then, but that night was the last time the two children would see their home in a long time. "You should go to sleep Dean," John said, looking away from the boy. "It's late, you too, Clint."

"But dad."

"But John." The two boys said in unison. Nobody noticed it though.

This time John did look, almost pleadingly, at them. "Now." Both boy's realised there was no room for arguments and whilst Dean moved about in his bed, trying to get comfortable on the old mattress, Clint climbed into the other bed, looking briefly at John before turning onto his side away from the other Winchesters.

John made a small bed on the couch, putting Sam in his car seat on the small coffee table in front of him, in his constant view and safe. He didn't go to bed that night, instead he lay awake, watching Sam's small chest rise and fall evenly as the child slept, taking a small measure of comfort in the fact that he hadn't lost his six month old baby tonight as well. Unbeknownst to John, Clint lay awake in his own bed, his eyes open and staring blankly into the darkness, his thoughts swirling about in his head as a jumbled mixture of memories, feelings and emotions from both his life with the Winchester's and his life before them. Everything had been going so well. He'd finally felt a part of a proper family where he was accepted as one of them, not as the kid that was dumped on their doorstep, but now, within the space of only an hour, his entire dream of living happily with the Winchester's was moving further away from his grasp. In his short life, Clint had not only lost his mother and father in a car accident, he'd been abandoned by his own brother, losing him as well, and now he'd lost one of the only other people he was starting to care about in his life. He'd lost Mary Winchester, one of the adults he could have seen himself calling mum in the future, and deep down he knew that his life would no longer be the same as it had been in the past eight months. Before he fell asleep that night, a small and silent tear slid down his cheek, leaving a wet smudge on the motel beds cushion.

 **-o-0-o-**

The next morning Clint woke to the sound of John moving about the motel room, and after stretching and yawning, he sat up in the bed, his back aching slightly from the uncomfortably hard mattress.

Before he'd even climbed out of the bed John had turned to him, his eyes red and bloodshot, shadowed by purple and gray bags underneath them. "Good, Clint, you're up. Come here a second," he said motioning for the seven year old to come towards him. Clint did as he was told, rubbing his sleepy eyes with his fist as he did so and stopped beside the table where a row of different objects were laid out in a line.

"What's this?" he asked through a yawn.

"I need to go out and collect some things," John told him. "There's some money in case you need to buy anything whilst I'm gone, some of Sammy's spare clothes and some chocolate bars," John explained, pointing to each object on the table as he said it. "I need you to keep an eye on your brother's whilst I'm gone. Don't leave this room, keep the door locked and don't open it for anyone but me or Joanne, okay."

Clint's face creased in confusion, his sleep muddled brain not comprehending what John was talking about. "What?" he asked distractedly, still looking at the money, clothing and snacks on the table.

"Clint, did you hear what I said?" John asked, and Clint nodded in confusion. "Good, here's mine and Joanne's numbers, if something happens call me and then her, if you need anything then call Joanne. Remember; don't open the door for anyone but me or her." He held out small piece of paper with his and Joanne's numbers on, waiting for Clint to take it, however, when he realised that the seven year old wasn't going to do so he knelt down in front of him and wrapped Clint's hand around the paper.

Clint pulled his eyes away from the table and looked at the paper in his hand. "But why?" he asked, still not understanding what was happening.

"I need to get some stuff from the house," John said and then he rested both of his hands on Clint's shoulders. "Remember, don't leave the room and keep an eye on your brother's, alright?" Again Clint nodded, this time with more certainty. Seeing that the child understood him, John nodded, pulling Clint into a small hug before standing up and heading towards the door.

"But Dad…" Clint said, not noticing his use of the title, it just slipping out comfortably for him. John did notice it though, and when he turned to look at Clint there was a small smile on his face, the first genuine sign of emotion he'd shown in front of Clint since the fire. He looked almost happy at Clint's use of the word, but behind the happiness there was a hint of sadness and regret as he looked between his three children.

"I'll only be a couple of hours, son. I promise," he said, forcing as much reassurance as he could into the final two words.

Clint's brow furrowed, "but"-

"Clint," John interrupted him. "Just keep an eye on your brother's for me." And with that John left the room, closing and locking the door behind him, leaving all of his trust with Clint quite comfortably.

The seven year old was left standing on the other side of the door, staring at it in shock for several minutes before being snapped out of his thoughts by the cries of Sam from the car seat. Quickly and without hesitation, Clint ran over to the child and picked him up, muttering words of comfort into his ear to calm him down and avoid waking Dean up, John's words ingrained into his head. _Look after your brother's, Clint._

When his dad returned to the motel room four hours later, burdened with a two duffel bags full of clothing and other necessities from their old house, he returned to Clint sitting on the couch with Sam in his arms, Dean beside him, the two older boys leaning against each other as they watched a cartoon on the cheap motel TV. Dean jumped up from the couch, running at his dad and hugging him whilst Clint turned around to face the man and smiled. He was sure it shouldn't have taken John four hours to collect some clothes and food but he ignored that thought when John picked Dean up and walked over to Clint, pulling him gently into a loving hug, showing the boy that he was still a part of their family.

"Thank you, Clint," John said, neither of them realising that this was something that would be happening more and more often as the days went by, and that soon, neither of them would see the world in the same light as before.

 **Hopefully you all like this chapter and don't forget to favourite, follow and review. In the next chapter I'm planning on skipping a head in time to when Clint is around seventeen to nineteen and in the future chapters there will be flashbacks into his life growing up as a hunter. I also wanted to know what you guys thought to Clint being a part of the whole 'bitch-jerk' joke that Sam and Dean have and having his own mock insult that the brothers can call him. Please let me know your thoughts on this as I think it will show him being as close to the brothers as they are to each other in the show, and if you do like this idea maybe you could give me ideas with what Sam and Dean could call him as I've not thought that far yet. Anyway, I hope you've enjoyed this chapter, goodbye until the next update.**


	3. Revelations, Clint 8

**So as some of you might have noticed by the title of this chapter Clint isn't seventeen, eighteen or nineteen like I'd planned on him being at this point. The reason for this being if I did skip ahead about ten years then I'd have missed a pretty major part of his life in the hunter world. So because of that I've held back on the time skip which will probably happen in the next couple of chapters unless I think of anything else that's important that I feel I should write about. And again thank you everyone who read, favourited and followed this story and thank you to everyone who reviewed: white collar black wolf, Chocolate498, Guest (1), Krysstinia, Guest (2), anqi602, Cira Heartfilia, and ArmyWife22079.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or The Avengers.**

Chapter 3- Revelations, Clint aged 8

Clint manoeuvred his body very slightly to try and find a more comfortable position on the floor, an action made twice as hard due to the small fact that he had a four year old clinging tightly to his arm, fast asleep and oblivious to his older brother's problem. The eight year old didn't want to wake Dean up but he'd put off the inevitable for the past hour and now he really needed to go to the bathroom. Using his free hand, Clint pulled himself away from his brother, doing so very slowly to avoid waking the younger boy up, and then ran off to the bathroom, his small feet making no noise on the wooden floor.

He tip-toed up the stairs, careful to avoid the floor boards he knew would creak and groan in protest to his sudden weight, and ran around the corner, easing the bathroom door quietly shut behind him.

He hadn't known Bobby for very long, only a month at the most, but Clint saw more of the junk yard owner than he did of his own father at the moment, and Bobby spent more time with him and Dean too, keeping an eye on the two boys whilst somehow managing to look after seven and a half month old Sam at the same time. Somehow Bobby did all of this and still found the time to fix up the cars in his junk yard and speak to people on the multiple phones he had hanging up on the wall. Why the older man had so many phones was a wonder to Clint, almost as big of a wonder as how the older man could keep track of them so easily.

And because of this, Clint didn't want to wake up the middle aged man who had called it an early night two hours ago, leaving Clint and Dean to fall asleep in the fort they'd made during the day. Even when he knew Bobby wouldn't mind him getting up to go to the bathroom.

 **-o-0-o-**

 **7 hours ago**

Clint looked up at the carefully constructed fort, his seven year old, imagination fuelled mind not seeing a precariously balanced structure of pillows, blankets and chairs but a magnificent castle with turrets that shot into the sky with battlements that he and Dean could stand on to see on coming enemies preparing to attack their home.

He was pulled from his thoughts when a small head of blonde hair poked its way out underneath a blanket, a giant smiled plastered to his young face and his bright green eyes filled with joy. Dean crawled out from the fort with a piece of cardboard held tightly in his hands and he held it out for Clint to take. Doing what the younger boy wanted, Clint took the cardboard and read the messy black writing spidering its way across the front of it. "Castle Winchester," Clint read, frowning at the sign as he tried to decipher the messy words. He then looked back down at Dean, grinning mischievously. "A perfect name for such a dangerous Fort."

He then handed it back to Dean, the younger boy taking it and holding it proudly against his chest, only having a few seconds to relax before Clint picked him up by the waist, just managing to lift the boys weight, and giving the four year old the extra height he needed to balance the sign on top of the entrance to the fort. After only a couple of seconds Clint quickly lowered Dean back down to the floor before they both looked up at the sign and then at the fort in accomplishment. "It's good," Dean stated beside Clint, seeing a castle just as brilliant as the one in Clint's own mind, probably better. However, the two boys didn't have time to take in the work as within seconds of putting Dean back on the ground the two boys heard a thundering of feet down the stairs, causing Dean's head to shoot up at Clint with unbelievable speed. "It's the Cyclops," he whispered, grabbing Clint's hand and pulling him towards the entrance to their fort, only letting go when they were both safely inside its walls.

"If we're quiet it won't see us," Clint added, his voice just as low as he played along with his brother. "But we have to be very quite." Dean nodded, not wanting to speak and alert the 'Cyclops' to their whereabouts.

Several agonising seconds went by filled only with the noise of someone walking around the room, if Clint looked through the small crack in between the two blankets that made up the door to their fort he could just make out pair of brown, dirty boots stop in front of the entrance, half a metre from where he and Dean were sitting. He looked down at Dean and smiled in amusement, putting a finger to his mouth, clearly conveying the message 'be quiet'. Again Dean nodded, his head moving so fast Clint was certain it would fall off of his shoulders but before Clint could stop him he heard a voice come from the pair of boots. "Did you just call me a Cyclops?" it said, eliciting a giggle from Dean and a cough from Clint as he tried to hide his laughter.

"I think it's seen us," Clint said and both boys crawled to the exit of the fort on the other side of the room.

"Wait," Dean said, grabbing Clint's leg to stop the older boy from moving any further. "We need to fight back or it will take over Castle Winchester."

Clint smiled and then both boys ran out of the fort, surprising the 'Cyclops' and jumped at him, causing all three off them to fall to the floor in a giant heap. "Balls," the giant said, pushing himself up from the floor and brushing off his clothes. "What did I do to deserve that?" Bobby said, rubbing his aching shoulder.

"You tried to attack Castle Winchester," Clint explained, his tone of voice showing there was no room for disagreement. "Re-starting the war we have with your kind."

"And as Castle Winchester's two best knights it's our job to defeat you and any of your Cyclops friends," Dean added.

Bobby was silent for several seconds before he raised an eyebrow challengingly. "And what happens if I fight back," he said, grabbing Dean and tickling him.

"No... Bobby..." Dean squealed between breaths as he struggled to climb out of 'the Cyclops' grasp. It was only after Clint joined Dean in his fight that Bobby moved away, stopping when his phone rang from the kitchen. With a moan, Bobby climbed up from the floor. Seriously, he was too old to be attacked by two children and be called a Cyclops.

He disappeared for a couple of minutes, leaving Clint and Dean on the floor in the living room. Neither of them had moved when he returned to the living room after taking the call with a book in one hand and his phone in the other. "The Cyclops has retreated back to the mountains until further notice," he said apologetically, looking grumpily at the book in his hand. The words on the front of it were faded and in a language Clint couldn't read. "I have work to do." Clint nodded in understanding whilst Dean stood up and cheered, jumping up and down in triumph.

"Victory!" The four year old shouted, running back and disappearing into the fort, momentarily forgetting about Clint and Bobby in his moment of joy. Clint watched his brother disappear into the fort, listening to the child's shouts of triumph and then followed Bobby towards a table and took a seat next to him, staring down at the foreign book in curiosity.

"What language is that?" He asked, not noticing the grave look on Bobby's face as he did so.

"Japanese," the older man replied, trying to be as blunt as possible to stop the eight year olds further questioning.

Clint looked up in astonishment and shock, (Bobby could read Japanese?), but the curiosity still burned behind his grey-blue eyes. "I didn't know you could read Japanese," he muttered to himself, not realising he'd voiced his thoughts. Bobby shrugged opening the book and subtly shielding the pages from the eight year old causing said boy to frown in confusion as he contemplated what to say next. "Can my dad read Japanese, too?" He asked eventually. He'd seen one of the books his dad had been reading last week. That had also been in another language but it looked nothing like the book Bobby was reading. It hadn't been as old, although he could tell it defintley wasn't new, and whilst he was able to try and read the words on his dad's book, he didn't even know where to start with the one in Bobby's hands. Not that he'd been any good at trying to read the one his dad owned.

"Not that I know of but maybe," Bobby eventually answered, pretending to be wrapped up in reading the book. "Have you ever asked him?"

Clint shook his head looking away from Bobby. "No, he's never really around," Clint stated and Bobby bit back a sigh. He knew just as well as Clint how little time John Winchester was spending with his own kids and it wasn't enough. Hell, he was seeing the Winchester kids more than John was but hearing the casualness in Clint's voice as he said this almost made the older Hunter feel sorry for the child. But only almost. He couldn't have word getting around to other Hunter's that he had a soft heart. That wouldn't work in favour of his ruff 'don't mess with me look'. "He's always working," Clint then added as he slouched down in the chair and rested his chin on the table. "Do you know what he does?"

Bobby looked down at Clint, hating himself for the words that came out of his mouth. "You know what he does, kid," he said and Clint nodded.

"He's a mechanic."

"Exactly," Bobby replied.

"But why doesn't he take us with him? He always disappears for days and then turns up again hurt. I've seen you work on cars before, Bobby, but you never get hurt like he does." Bobby's frown deepened as he watched the kid stare at the table, picking at the wood without a second thought, distracted from what he was doing.

He closed the book, only realizing he'd used more force than necessary when Clint jumped at the sudden noise. "Your dad travels a lot, Clint. He's in Michigan at the moment, that's a long drive from here; he doesn't want to make you sit in a car for hours on end."

"I'd like to go to Michigan," Clint muttered, and then he frowned himself, shaking his head as he said, "I should go find Dean, I'm distracting you from your work." Slipping off of the edge of his chair, the eight year old jogged over to the fort where Dean was sat waiting patiently outside of it with a blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak, his face brightening up immediately when he saw Clint coming over to him.

This time Bobby did sigh as he watched Clint play with Dean. He was too smart for an eight year old, something that unsettled and upset Bobby, making him wonder what the boy had already gone through in his life to read small signs like he did. As much as he hated the thought, John Winchester needed to have an honest discussion with his oldest child over what he did for a living, because honestly, he didn't know how much time the two of them could keep the Hunting life secret hidden from him. "Balls," Bobby moaned, opening the book and flicking roughly through to the page he needed. He seriously hadn't signed up to babysitting three boys when he agreed to help John Winchester just over a month ago.

 **-o-0-o-**

 **Present time**

Clint opened the bathroom door and ran back down the stairs, still very much aware of the noise he was making. It was five minutes after he'd climbed back into the makeshift bed Bobby had put together inside the fort that he heard the familiar roar of a car engine making its way into the junk yard, the distinctive noise making him sit up quickly. Next to him, Dean mumbled something in his sleep and Clint mentally shouted at himself before slowly lying back down to avoid waking the four year old up.

He heard movement upstairs and then there was a louder than necessary knock on the front door that didn't stop until Bobby growled out, "alright I'm comin'," and opened the door harder than he needed to, emphasising his annoyance at being woken up so late. "John?" Clint heard Bobby say in disbelief and he only just fought off the urge to run out of the fort and into his father's arms. "You're two days late."

"Yeah, I know," was John's curt reply, and Clint strained his ears to hear what was going on. The door slammed shut and he heard a bag drop onto the floor and a relieved sigh escape his dad's mouth. "It took longer than I expected."

"I noticed," Bobby replied dryly.

John ran a hand through his hair, grimacing as he did so. "Look, I know I should've called"-

"Yeah you should've, and not for my benefit either," Bobby quickly interrupted. Clint didn't see it but both men looked towards the fort where the two younger Winchester's were meant to be sleeping. Neither of the adults realised that only one was.

"Are they alright?" John asked, groaning in pain very slightly as his expression turned from one of pain to one of warmth as he stared at the fort.

Bobby's tone softened when he heard the obvious pain the other man was in but he glared at the other man instead to let him know he wasn't off of the hook. "They're fine, but you're not."

"I'm fine," John denied. "I just didn't duck in time... The Wendigo caught my shoulder before I torched it, but I cleaned it all up." Clint frowned, his brow creased with worry and confusion. A Wendigo? What the hell is a Wendigo? And what had it done to his dad? Carefully Clint shuffled forwards, using his fingers to pry one of the fort blankets up from the floor giving him a small view of the adults in the kitchen. His dad was sitting in a chair with his back to Clint and Dean whilst Bobby was looking in the cupboards for something. "I had a handle on it." As John said this a hint of doubt wavered into his voice, like he was trying to convince himself of his own success.

"Good, cause you had three kids waiting for you to get back," Bobby said, his voice even yet his glare hardening as he directed it at John, silently telling him just how annoyed he was. John groaned again as he leant forwards in his chair to take the can Bobby was offering him.

"They're fine, Clint and Dean will have each other's back," John said, waving of Bobby's concern with more confidence than Bobby felt a father should have knowing what he knew.

"How can they protect each other if they don't know what they're protecting each other from?" Bobby asked and took a seat opposite John.

"I can't tell them," John hissed. "I won't bring them into this."

Bobby looked away from John. He understood exactly where John was coming from, he really did. Who in their right mind would want to tell their children about the existence of creatures that could kill them within seconds? He'd actually be seriously concerned if John went along with it so willingly. But unlike John, Bobby hadn't been in the hunting business for a couple of months, hell, he hadn't even been in it for just a couple of years. John Winchester probably didn't even know how much experience he'd had in this business. But he had had a lot of experience, and Bobby had seen, although very rarely, kids growing up into the life of hunting and he had seen the kids find out about what their parents did too. Turning back to face John, Bobby bluntly told him the truth. "You already have, as soon as you became a hunter."

"You don't know that," John denied to only be interrupted by Bobby.

"I've seen several kids grow up into this life, and trust me, the ones who find out for themselves never last that long." The oldest Winchester looked at Bobby, his face hardening. Bobby ignored the glare, having faced far worse in his life and carried on. "And if you don't tell them soon, your boy will find out for himself." John's eyes narrowed slightly, his brow creasing in confusion. "Clint was asking questions, wanting to know where you were today. He's not stupid, he'll find out eventually."

The two men grew silent and from Clint's position in the living room all he could see was his dad shifting uncomfortably, lost in thought. _What did his dad have to tell him?_ He thought, fighting his curiosity and pushing down the part of him that was telling his body to go over to the two men and ask now. If he did his dad would be furious, not only was he meant to be sleeping but he would be inadvertently telling his dad he was eavesdropping on their conversation too.

Eventually John stood up, breaking the silence as the chair legs scraped across the floor. "Where's Sammy?" He asked turning around, Clint letting go of the blanket immediately to hide his face from view whilst Bobby sighed in frustration.

"He's up stairs," the older man said, and then added a little forcefully through clenched teeth, "sleeping." Nodding, John ignored Bobby's last comment and quickly disappeared upstairs, successfully avoiding the conversation.

A string of curse words Clint was certain he wasn't meant to hear escaped from Bobby's mouth before he too disappeared up the stairs in pursuit of John, not willing to give up on the conversation so easily. He wasn't sure how, but in the past couple of months John Winchester's kids had worked their way into his heart and for some reason he felt the need to help them, even if it was protecting them from their own dad's stubbornness.

As the two men carried on with their argument upstairs, Clint was left on his own, wondering what it was he had just overheard. He rolled onto his back, biting his lip and silently wishing the two adults hadn't just left the kitchen. Seriously, what had he just overheard?

He stayed like that for another hour until he finally fell back to sleep, still thinking about the conversation the two adults had had.

 **-o-0-o-**

Clint sat beside the living room window, hidden from view by their partially collapsed fort. He and Dean had had a rude awakening only a few hours ago by the sudden weight of several blankets dropping onto them, the chairs no longer supporting the fabric. He was in the perfect place in the house. He could see Dean from his position, the four year old sitting on the couch with his eyes glued to a cartoon playing on Bobby's old TV. Normally Clint would be sat there with him, enjoying the TV show as well, but when Bobby and John had headed into the junk yard to fix up the impala Clint had taken the small opportunity he had to look through some of Bobby's old books, a clear aim in his head as he looked through them to find anything he could about a 'Wendigo'.

At first he'd been a little unsure of his plan. For starters he didn't know where to start when it came to spelling out the strange word, but in the end he'd gone for spelling out the word as best he could and finding something that seemed similar. He personally thought there should be more of the letter 'e' in the word but according to the tatty, worn book in his lap there was only one.

Although, looking at the roughly drawn picture in the book, Clint was still unsure as to whether he'd find the right thing. He couldn't have the right book because seriously, the… thing drawn on the page in front of him couldn't have attacked his dad. There was just no way that the thing… no, the monster that he was staring at could possibly exist.

But then again, what else could hurt his dad enough to make him admit his injuries. He'd never seen the man do that before.

Looking back down at the book, Clint studied the misshapen drawing, the creature having long, bent limbs and a face with sharp, needle like teeth and pin point black eyes. It was a monster. A monster that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

He was pulled from his thoughts by a deep voice calling out his and Dean's name from behind the fort. His dad stepped over the pile of blankets and cushions with two plates in hand, smiling as he handed one to Dean. "Here you go," he said as Dean looked away from the TV to take the plate of food, immediately taking a bite into his sandwich, his stomach apparently already empty of the breakfast he'd had that morning.

Clint on the other hand took the plate but didn't eat any of the food sitting on it, his appetite disappearing as soon as he looked through the book in his lap. John noticed the way the boy looked down at the food, distracted. He also noticed the book half closed in his lap, and even though he couldn't see most of what was on the page, one word stood out to him more than the others. Looking at his oldest son, his face softened and after only a little hesitation he came to a decision. "Clint, could I talk to you outside for a second?" he asked, and Clint nodded, getting up and leaving his plate on the couch beside Dean as he passed it. Nobody noticed the four year old sneak Clint's lunch onto his own plate when they left the room.

Leading Clint outside, John stopped beside the Impala, lifting Clint easing onto the trunk of the vehicle. "Where's Bobby?" Clint asked, noticing the lack of the other man.

"He went to work on one of the other cars," John said, looking Clint in the eye as he moved onto his intended topic of conversation. "Me and Bobby were talking last night," he started, unsure of how to go on. "He said you were asking about where I was last week." Clint nodded, looking around for Bobby, his eyes sometimes moving to look at his dad's injured shoulder. "I was…" John stopped speaking, for once in his life at a complete loss for words.

Clint carried on for him though, blurting out a question before he thought through what he was saying. "Are monsters real?" he asked hurriedly, fear shining in his grey-blue eyes. John opened his mouth to answer but closed it immediately and taking this as a need for explanation, Clint carried on speaking. "I overheard you and Bobby talking last night… I heard you say this thing hurt you. You called it a Wendeago and you said you burnt it but before you could it injured your arm."

"A Wendigo," John corrected, nodding somewhat hesitantly. Running a hand through his hair, John sighed in frustration. "Look, Clint," he started, running a hand through his hair, again. "There are things… monsters… I guess, out there." Clint's mouth dropped open and his skin paled, silently breaking John's heart as the boys eyes widened in fear.

"But…"

John watched his son grow silent as he stared down at his hands picking at the corner of his shirt.

"There are people out there that go after them, Clint, to stop them from hurting others… That's what I do, that's why I disappear for days and don't speak about where I've been." Clint stared at him blankly, speechless, not knowing what to think, not knowing where to start in forming a sentence that actually made sense. "That's why we travel around the country so much."

"Is Bobby a hunter too?" He eventually asked after several seconds, his eyes flicking towards the house in search of the other man. John followed his line of site.

"Yeah he is, kiddo. You've got us both looking out for you," John said and not knowing what else to do, John pulled Clint into a hug, comforting the child. "I'm not gonna let anything get near you." Clint, still shocked by the unbelievable revelation, didn't hug John back straight away, his mind not registering what was happening. However, when he realised what John was doing the eight year old wrapped his arms around John in return, not realising how much the small action settled John's suddenly nervous stomach.

The two stayed like that until Clint pulled away from his dad. John didn't want to be the one to pull away first after seeing the fear shining in Clint's eyes, it was better that he comforted Clint now and stayed with him for as long his son needed. After all, he'd been both shocked and silently terrified when he'd found out about the other, more secretive half of the world, and he was a grown man who'd already seen more than most people. Clint was a kid.

What had he done? What had he just told his son? John ran a hand over his face. He understood where Bobby was coming from, and he'd confided in the man in the past about his fears of Clint finding out. Bobby had told him exactly the same thing then too but he hadn't listened. But seeing his son looking at that book, staring at the rough drawing of the Wendigo like it was about to jump out of the page right there and then. He couldn't not tell him. What if Clint had found out himself but couldn't be honest about it with him. His son would be left feeling alone as he learnt the truth about the existence of monsters. The oldest Winchester couldn't take that risk. "You alright?" John asked his son to fill the silence, immediately regretting it as the realisation of what he'd asked Clint sank in. Of course he wasn't alright.

But Clint nodded his head, not willing to admit that he really wasn't. He looked up at his dad, his brow creased. "How do you hunt mo…" he stopped midsentence, looking into the distance to avoid his dad's face.

"How do I hunt them?" John asked to which Clint nodded again. John picked Clint up and lowered him to the ground. "I'll show you."

Clint hovered behind John as the older man pulled out his keys and opened up the back of the car, watching in curiosity. The fear was still there but for a slight moment he was distracted and after John lifted up the bottom of the trunk he peered over the side to get a better look at what his dad was staring at. His eyes widened. "There's something to kill everything," John explained, hoping to dispel some of his sons fear. Or most things, he silently added. For now he'd keep Clint thinking you could kill everything and he would let him know of what you couldn't in the future.

They spent almost an hour going through the contents of John's weapons arsenal. Clint listened to him closely, taking everything in that his dad told him. Occasionally he'd interrupt, asking John a question or picking up one of the weapons gently, each time giving John a miniature heart attack before he realised that he'd gotten himself into this mess.

Eventually though, John decided to call it a day, telling his oldest son to go back inside and keep an eye on his brother. Clint did as he was told, only putting up a bit of a fight when he saw a black crossbow half hidden under one of his dad's old coats. When the two returned to the living room they arrived to the site of four year old asleep on the couch, two plates with the bare remnants of his and Clint's lunch by his side.

John looked at Dean, an amused smile working its way onto his face before he gently nudged Clint in Dean's direction. "I'll make you something else," he said and Clint grinned, running over to the couch and immediately switching the channel on the TV.

 **-o-0-o-**

That night, John, woke with a shooting pain running down his back. Mumbling something under his breath, he rolled his shoulders in their sockets to try and push out some of the aches and pains. He was getting too old to be sleeping on the couch, especially one like Bobby's which was probably older than both men put together. Then he squinted at the window on the other side of the room in an attempt to figure out what time it was. The darkness behind it telling him it was still late at night. He frowned in confusion. It was too late for his kids or Bobby to be wondering the house and unless Bobby had a new pet dog that he hadn't been told about then something else had woke him up. Within seconds of that final thought his hand had quickly slid under the couch cushion, only stopping when it came to rest on the hilt of his silver blade knife that he'd hid there before he'd gone to sleep several hours ago. It was a reassuring feeling, knowing that the weapon was quick to hand if he should need it.

It was then that he heard someone mumble from close by and John looked to the foot of the couch at a dark shape curled up in a ball on the floor, a pillow at one end and wrapped up in a blanket. It was clear, even in the barley lit room, the person there had attempted to create a make-shift bed on the floor, and by the way the figure's chest was slowly moving up and down in sleep, they'd succeeded. Gently, he shook the figure, the child quickly waking at the contact and rolling over in the 'bed'.

"Dad?" Clint questioned, looking around confused until he remembered why he was downstairs.

"Yeah Clint," John replied casually, letting go of the knife and sitting up, making room for the eight year old on the couch.

Clint shook his head, sleepily. "Nothing," he mumbled, climbing onto the couch beside John and wrapping himself up in the blanket again. John carefully draped his own blanket over the child too, putting one arm around the boys back and letting him nestle comfortable into his side. "I couldn't sleep," the eight year old muttered under his breath, his sleep muddled mind not registering he was talking out loud. Within seconds Clint had closed his eyes again, leaving John to his own thoughts.

"That's alright kiddo," John said quietly, a knot of guilt forming in his stomach as he pieced together why he son couldn't sleep. "I'll be here of you need me."

"I know," Clint replied, his voice barely a whisper and forcing John to strain his ears. He wasn't expecting an answer from the child but the two words had him staring at the boy, a warm and loving glint in his eyes. "Good night, dad."

"Good night, Clint," John replied. He stayed awake for the next half an hour, his eyes glued on Clint and waiting until the boys breathing evened out, telling him that his son was sleeping peacefully. He didn't ask Clint the next morning why he couldn't sleep and Clint didn't mention it, neither of them needing or wanting to mention hunting and monsters that day.


End file.
